Linda Fairstein - Bad blood

Mercer speed-dialed the lieutenant on his cell. “Bringing out Mike and Alex. Couldn’t get the last train to stop. Motorman must think we look like a politically correct stickup team, trying to hijack him. You think you can do that for us, or do we have to slog our way out through some defunct tunnel Chapman thinks he can find?” Mercer said. “And Teddy O’Malley’s dead, inside the station.”

Mercer listened to Peterson’s response. “Wait up,” he said to the lieutenant, “let me ask Mike.”

“What’d he say?” Mike asked.

“You want to hold tight here? He’ll have a team try to get on with one of the next motormen to pick us up. He’d prefer that to having you tiptoe around the third-rail hot spots. Wants to know if you think Quillian’s still around.”

“I’m clueless. Tell him to bring in all the backup he’s got. Slowly and carefully. There’s all kinds of tunnels and passageways inside this place.”

“I’ve got an idea,” I said. “Can I talk to him?”

Mercer passed the phone to me.

“Alex, you okay? Battaglia’ll have my ass with you being in there,” Peterson said.

“Yes, I’m fine. Would you call over to the Fifth?” I asked. The nearby Fifth Precinct station house was on Elizabeth Street, a two-minute ride from our location, with lights and sirens blaring. “Tell whoever’s on the desk to send a patrol car to a shop on Bayard called Uncle Charlie’s. They all know it.”

“What for?”

“As fast as they can go, tell Charlie I need baozhang. Hear me? I said baozhang. Tell him I need bamboo sticks, as big as he’s got. And matches-I want matches, too.” I had been reminded of the sticks when I saw the dried-out bamboo seats of the antique train car.

“Alex, what kind of-”

“Trust me on this, Loo. Do it fast.”

The three of us were marooned on the narrow strip of platform until Peterson could get a train to stop and pick us up. The skylight that hung overhead was now sheathed in darkness as night settled over the city.

I was sandwiched between the two men as we waited for an escort out.

“Baozhang? I haven’t thought of the stuff since you convicted that Asian gang of the Chinese New Year rape. You planning a celebration?” Mercer said.

“I’m celebrating big as soon as we get out of here. No need to wait for the Fourth of July.”

“I’m not in the mood for a take-out dinner, whatever the hell you just ordered,” Mike said.

“I like her thinking, Mike.” Mercer patted me on the back, stroking my shoulder for reassurance.

Off to the south of us came some unexpected noise. Instinctively, Mike raised his arm and the light caught another phalanx of rats-big ones, with long, pink tails, scurrying up and over the edge of the platform, disappearing out of sight around the curve.

Mike started to walk in that direction. “You wait with Coop,” he said to Mercer.

“Stay tight, Mike.”

He waved off Mercer’s admonition.

“You’ve got the only light. What are you doing?”

Mike stopped.

We both knew that he was looking for Quillian, but Mercer didn’t want the killer to be found until some reinforcements arrived. Something had caused the rodents to dance out of their habitat within the old station. If this wasn’t their regular feeding time, then perhaps their flight was caused by an intruder.

I looked back to the north, willing a train to arrive, but the evening schedule would bring them less frequently now.

“So there’s a side tunnel off to the north,” Mercer said, barely loud enough for me to hear. “And what about that way? To the south.”

As Mike pointed, we could see to our left the active tracks of the old loop, where the #6 train finished its turnaround. “Over to the right of the raised platform there’s another black hole, now abandoned-another sandhog excavation. It’s a cylinder-nine feet around-built as a pneumatic mail system almost a century ago.”

“Does it open onto this?” Mercer asked.

Mike nodded.

My eyes were playing tricks with me now. The rats were running in our direction, turned back by whatever had disturbed them. The glare from their eyes, like beady little headlights coming toward us, drew my sights to the level of the ground. But along the distant curving wall, something taller-something the size of a human-was moving slowly in the opposite direction.

I didn’t want to call the figure to Mike’s attention. It couldn’t be more than a minute before the next train was due into the loop. I didn’t want him going after this desperate man alone.

I looked over my shoulder again but saw no sign of the #6. When I turned my head back, Mike had already spotted the figure under the farthest arch of the platform.

“Quillian! Freeze!” Both Mike and Mercer drew their guns.

“Alex,” Mercer said in his firmest voice, “get back up on there.”

I retreated to the second step of the staircase, my heart pounding as I watched Mike start to trot lamely toward Quillian.

The fugitive raised an arm. He had a gun, too, and I had no idea how much ammunition he had left, or whether he had discharged any bullets in the days since he’d left the courtroom-before putting two rounds in Teddy O’Malley’s back.

“Give it up, Quillian,” Mike said. “There’s cops on both ends of the tunnel-and a very hot third rail in between.”

Mike was too far from Quillian-and it was pitch-black around them-for either to take aim and shoot, but I ached at how exposed both Mike and Mercer were on the narrow platform. Once the train made its approach, they’d be silhouetted in its high beams and at a great disadvantage in the standoff if Quillian fired at them.

“Come over here,” I hissed at both of them, but they didn’t move.

Brendan Quillian must have been inching farther away, his back against the wall. I couldn’t see the movement, but I heard Mike yell at him to stop.

Then his shadow picked up speed as he seemed to reach a corner and round it. Mike barked again and ran away from Mercer and me, slowed by his weak ankle.

He reached the end of the platform and paused before jumping down-practically three feet-to the bed of the train tracks. His bad leg crumpled beneath him from the impact of his weight. This time Mike screamed in pain as he toppled over and slid against the tracks.

Mercer took off in Mike’s direction in a flash and Quillian disappeared from sight. I dashed after Mercer and reached the platform’s edge just as he jumped down and leaned over beside Mike.

“Go on back, Alex.”

I sat and eased myself off the platform. “It’s safer being with you. At least you’ve both got guns.”

“This isn’t any sprain, man. I’d be surprised if you haven’t torn a ligament or broken a bone,” Mercer said. “Can you stand? Let me help you up.”

Mercer picked his head up, looking for Quillian to reappear, while he tried to help Mike up at the same time. His revolver was still in his right hand.

But as Mike had landed, his good leg had shot out in front of him. It was bent to the side, and his foot was wedged under a tie of the old train tracks, where once tightly packed gravel had loosened and created crevices like the one that now trapped him.

I was on my hands and knees, trying to ease Mike’s foot out of the loafer without further twisting it. Mercer attempted to lift him again with one arm, keeping the gun as steady as he could with his other.

I saw the lights of the #6 gleaming on the tracks a second before I heard the blast from its horn. Peterson’s cops must have ordered the driver to barrel in at full speed to rescue the three of us from the isolated platform. Only now we were directly in the train’s path.